MY SEX ESCAPADE WITH HELEN ERICKSEN 1.

My name is Joseph Cains. At the time of writing I was still a member of the University’s music club, and I had an enormous crush on a beautiful mixed-race girl who happened to come along to the same club. This story comes from halfway through the academic year, just before her grading test. She asked me to come to the lakeside after my classes to help her practice her throws and tumbles, and I, being a lovestruck fool, agreed. It was one of the best foolish decisions that I have ever made.

The thing about Helen Eriksen was that she was utterly beautiful. This was the problem with fighting her; it was also the reason that when you lost to her, you didn’t mind.

She was about six inches shorter than I, with short black hair and dark brown eyes. She had a sweet, angular face and looked damn-near otherworldly when she smiled. Over the last few months she and I had become close, more as friends than as lovers, and I in my ignorance of future events had no real reason, to start with, to think that was ever going to change.

It was nearly dark when we met beside the lake. She was ghostly in her gi, but it stood out strongly enough from the twilight that I would still be able to see her every move. I had come in mine as well.

It wasn’t a warm evening, in fact it was a little blustery, and raindrops would occasionally fall for a minute or two. The kind of autumn evening one expects in England. Leaves rustled and a substation hummed somewhere distant, and that was all.

“Okay,” she said. “I need to get my rolling up to standard, and there are is least one of the main motions that I don’t feel confident with.”

I grinned. She was always beautiful but the distant orange glow of streetlights made her look utterly gorgeous this evening. “Let me guess,” I said. “The mourosouri kokyouhou?” It was a motion that our teacher had told us was exceptionally hard to master, one that even the highest-level black belts wouldn’t necessarily have it right. Helen being Helen, she would want to feel that she had mastered it before setting foot in that hall.

She laughed. “I guess nobody ever gets it, right? Doesn’t matter. Going to try anyway.”

I moved into the standard fighting stance, extended my arm toward her. She grabbed it and I executed the motion, and she rolled away to my left.

“Ow,” she said. “Should have brought some mats out.”

We both knew that we’d never have been allowed to bring exercise mats outside. “Would have kept you from getting dirty, I suppose.” I said it with a grin in my voice, and she scowled at me in that half-loving way she had.

“I’ll get you on the floor yet, baka.” It wasn’t a fantastic nickname but it had a lot of affection behind it, and that was what counted.

I switched my foremost leg and held my arm out again. This time as I threw her I felt the swell of her breast against me, and of course, my mind began to wander.

It was her turn to throw me. She held the stance, I grabbed her forearm, and as I did I saw what looked like white muslin down her top. She’d bound her breasts in the old Japanese fashion, and that was... odd, but not too unexpected for her.

Of course, it also meant that she wasn’t wearing a bra, and that was the biggest turn-on I’d had in a long while.

As we went through the motions, I caught the occasional glimpse and I could see that her bindings were working themselves loose, and every time her hips or waist or bust came into contact with me another surge of blood went to my navel.

We practiced headlocks, and that squashed my face into her breasts and frankly, at this point I was at full mast and begging for her to call a break so I could pretend to need the bathroom, disappear for a few minutes and bring myself off with her in mind.

But of course, it didn’t happen.

We got to the point of trapping and cutting the legs out from under each other. First she practiced the conversion on me, and she didn’t seem to feel my absurd erection pressing against her thigh, and then I had to practice it on her.

The motion essentially involved pressing your crotch right up against your opponent, and although I knew it would surprise or even shock her, I was beginning to have serious issues with any idea of self control.

And I know for sure that she felt it this time because as I pressed up against her, she let out a heavy breath with a tiny hint of a moan behind it.

She looked me dead in the eye with a tiny bit of hunger showing through when she suggested the next motion: a set of movements that involves switching back to face away from your opponent and throwing them forward over your shoulder. If you can see where this is going, you’re exactly right.

I threw her first and she pressed up heavily against my back as I threw her, squashing her breasts against me and letting out another moan. And then she came to throw me and she seemed to accidentally slow down just as she pulled me in, and all of a sudden there I was, with a damn-near painful erection grinding up against her firm round backside through our fairly thin practice uniforms. She let out a groan and pressed hard against me; my hands dropped reflexively to her hips and pulled her in harder , and she broke away, turned, grabbed my head in her hands and kissed me violently.